Rain falls in a steady pit-patter against the window, the sky a twisted swirl of grey and white, with patches of watery sunlight here and there, the sun desperately trying to show her face, but to no avail. A young man tosses and turns on a bed, muttering and clawing at his chest, limbs tangled up hopelessly in blankets and sheets.
And then, with a gasp that's more of a strangled scream, Will jolts upright, ripping himself free of his sheets and jumping to his feet. Spots of blood dot his white t-shirt, which is stuck to his chest with sweat. Kirjava mews anxiously, winding her body around his ankles and peering up at him with an expression far too serious for a cat. "Did you have that dream again?" She asks, blinking slowly at him, watching as he stares at his reflection in the mirror with too-wide eyes. "Yeah." He answers, swallowing hard, blinking rapidly to clear his head of the flashes of the nightmare.
His heart beating painfully, cracking his ribs. His mutilated hand bleeding freely while the fingers of his good hand claw viciously at his chest, peeling back the flesh to expose a bloody, throbbing heart bursting through his broken ribcage.
His damaged hand throbs painfully and he glances down at it, relieved to see that the stumps of his two fingers are covered by scar tissue, not blood.
But the pain vanishes suddenly, leaving him with an ache far worse. His gaze travels down to see that his heart is gone, ribs curled outward like clawed and broken fingers. His eyes rise to see Lyra, holding his heart, the blood seeping through her fingers, thick and dark. She smiles at him, but then her eyes grow wide. His name is on her lips, but before she can utter it, her image wavers and then shatters into a million, sparkling pieces, like bits of diamond, a single, white feather left in her place.
"5 years Kirjava. 5 years. And I have woken up nearly every day since then from nightmares like this." He bangs his fist on the dresser, causing the mirror to shake. "There is meaning to these dreams. These feelings I have, they're not normal. I have to find her. We have to find them." He amends himself at the end, meeting the steady gaze of his shadow-colored daemon.
"We have to break the window."
The words come out with a firm assurance that he hadn't felt in years, a slight pressure easing in his chest as though some great weight had been lifted. Kirjava peers up at him, blinking slowly before leaping lightly onto the dresser, head-butting his forearm affectionately. "We do." She answers simply, sitting down and watching him carefully as he retreats and pulls his shirt up over his head, discarding it to the floor. "They're worse." She mews softly, looking at his chest. Deep, raw fingernail marks scour his flesh, little rivulets of blood caked against his pale skin, mingled with sticky sweat. "I'll survive." Will mutters, examining the scratches in the mirror with a serious frown on his face, before shrugging and stretching, wincing a little as the movement tugs at the wounds.
Without another word, he gathers up some clean clothes and pokes his head out of his room, glancing both ways before darting to the bathroom- the last thing he needed was for Mary or his mother to see the blood and question him- it was bad enough when his screams would wake them. He was just fortunate that they believed him when he said they were only simple nightmares, nothing of concern, though he could see in Mary's eyes that she had lingering suspicions, but he refused to acknowledge them.
With cat-like grace, he darts to the bathroom and slips inside, locking the door behind him. He takes a longer shower than normal, steam filling up the tiny bathroom, water hot enough to scald his skin. But he needs it- he never seems to be able to get warm these days, not even in summertime. There's always a chill that lingers in his skin, seeming to stem from his chest, which he just can't seem to shake. But the water helps, at least a little, even if it leaves his skin pink and sensitive and the scratches sorer than before- though they were now much cleaner.
It doesn't take him long to dress and head back to his room, where he carefully stashes his bloody shirt at the bottom of his hamper, knowing his mom wouldn't sort through it, respecting his privacy. "It's almost time." He glances at his daemon, who nods, understanding, and he holds his arm out to her, letting her crawl up it, draping herself around his neck and shoulders. With a last glance around his room, Will departs, checking his watch briefly. He makes his way soundlessly to the kitchen, not wanting to wake his mother, and hoping that Mary had already left for work.
Mercifully, he makes it out of the house undetected, and manages to get to the- their- bench without incident, heaving a sigh of relief to find it empty- it was not a spot he would be content to share with anyone, except her. More than once, he'd found it occupied, but all it had taken to scare them off was a hard glare-most were reluctant to hold his dark, angry gaze, and though he wasn't tall, he was nonetheless intimidating, standing there with arms folded across his broad chest, scowl in place. But there is no need for that today, and he sits on the bench with a sigh, Kirjava hopping off his shoulders to lay on the bench beside him, eyes half closed contentedly. "I know you can't hear me Lyra, but I just want you to know that, well, that we're going to come find you and Pan. I know we agreed to live our lives, but…" He trails off, blinking hard. "But I just can't do it. Not without you. Not without my heart." The words are strangely poetic, at least for him, but they feel right, and he sighs, leaning back against the bench, lost in thought about the fierce little girl who'd captured his heart, wondering what she looked like now, and hoping her scowl was just the same.